


Outer Extremities

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Worries About Steve Even When He Doesn't Have To Anymore, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Getting Lost in the Past, M/M, Recovery, Shower Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Avoid the extremes</i>. </p><p>And it's not as if Bucky hadn’t figured that one out for himself, what with watching the way nothing worked, nothing helped; it's not as if Bucky hadn't spent a lifetime keeping Steve within that middle-ground that would keep his heart from giving out, keep him breathing, keep him <i>there</i>. With <i>Bucky</i>.</p><p>But after Austria, things are different. After the Potomac, things are <i>different</i>.</p><p>And sometimes, Bucky forgets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outer Extremities

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me why it was that they got so dizzy after a long, hot shower.
> 
> And obviously, everything in my life ends up being about Steve and Bucky one way or another. I wish I was sorry. (Not really, though.)
> 
> My sincerest thanks to my darling [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) for the read-through and being amazing all around, all the time <3

_Not too hot, and not too cold._

It’s not as if Bucky hadn’t fucking figured that one out for himself, what with watching the way nothing worked, nothing helped; what with feeling useless, heartsick with the way that Steve would shiver half the year and sweat in gasping fits for the rest of the months leftover, and for all that Bucky’d _tried_ to help, to make Steve warm when he was freezing, to bring Steve cool when the heat grew thick—as much as Bucky _tried_ , it only ever seemed to make things worse.

So when the doctor eyes him carefully, with the kind of eyes Bucky hates most—narrowed, wary of this scrappy boy still marked up from the docks, standing for the scrawny spark of fire that’s threatening to snuff out on the hospital bed behind them: when the doctor says the words to Bucky with a kind of weight, a gravity that shivers through his bones, Bucky already knew that Steve couldn’t handle the whole of the world’s extremes, Steve couldn’t breathe through the darkest dark nights, couldn’t squint into the brightest lights. 

_His heart_ , the doctor says, and Bucky’s not a medical man, sure, but even he could have put that together, for the way Steve’s hand would go to his chest, followed by Bucky’s own as he’d mould himself around Steve and whisper to him, half-formed words that always came out out stupid, always came out scared, always amounted entirely to _don’t you leave me you stubborn son of a bitch, don’t you do it, don’t you fucking dare_ as the _bu-bump_ inside Steve’s chest ran barely-there for all that Bucky pressed on the skin, for all Steve’d be choking with his lungs heaving hard, lifting that poor pumping mess to the surface, for all that Bucky should’ve been able to _know_ it for all the force that Steve was, that Steve _is_ , except Bucky only ever knew it like a fruit fly in the corner, buzzing wild and flailing and desperate before the life goes out and it shrivels, dried up on the floor, and fuck, _fuck_ —

 _His heart can’t handle the strain at the extremes_ , the doctor’d said, and Bucky had swallowed hard, and nodded harder, and vowed to the ground on which he stood, and whatever spun beyond the sky: Bucky _swore_ that Steve would have peace in the middleground, Steve would sketch his world in gradients and Bucky would steal the broken bits still left of his fucking charcoal sticks because Steven Grant Rogers could find himself drawn out toward the dangers that tagged along behind the absolutes, the excesses, the horrible extremities that would threaten his hold, his place, his beating, breathing body as a constant, as the best and most essential goddamned thing that Bucky’d ever known.

So if the cold meant that little bit of pressure that could be the difference between Steve’s eyes on him, clenching in Bucky’s stomach with how goddamned _blue_ they were, and Steve’s eyes staying closed, closed, closed until Bucky shriveled up like those fruit flies in the corner, until Bucky gave out just the same, then Bucky was gonna make damned sure the cold knew it’s place; namely, a place leaving Steve a good, wide berth. And if the heat meant Steve’s bum ticker got going too fast for him to hold without breaking, then Bucky’d hold it for him, and hold the heat off just the same. Because Steve meant everything; Steve _means_ everything.

 _Avoid the extremes_. 

_______________________

After Austria, things are different.

Bucky snorts to himself. Different. Right. 

_Different_ is the way his boots fit when he grabs one of Gabe’s socks by mistake. That’s _different_.

This, though? Now?

Well, _fuck_.

This here’s a whole other beast.

He wakes, sometimes, with his heart in his throat and his palms flat on the ground beneath him, his arms pinned to his sides, all muscle memory and the remnants of that table, those machines, the bite of the clamps on his limbs, the shine of those _eyes_ —

Sometimes he wakes, and it’s freezing, and it takes time, it takes effort not to run, not to follow the way that the pounding in his blood wants to be the pounding of his feet as he goes to Steve, as he wraps himself around that stupid punk and prays he’s got enough meat on him, enough heat in him for two because Steve needs it, god, but Steve _needs_ it—

_I thought you were taller._

Shit. 

_Shit_.

And he can’t breathe, because Steve’s real and perfect on the outside, in the flesh and bones of him like he’s always been where it mattered, where it counted, where Bucky’d fallen, hard and full; he can’t breathe because his chest hurts when he thinks about the danger, when he thinks about the losing, when he thinks about Steve, his Steve and the way those eyes sparkle when they find soft curls and red lips, he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ because there are lights that aren’t real, aren’t _human_ behind his eyes when he closes them against this, against _everything_ —

“Easy, Buck.”

Bucky blinks, and it’s like coming back to himself again, it’s like being in that room again, it’s like the light behind his eyes again except it’s real this time, it’s the sun and the stars and it’s his and it’s here, and it’s _Steve_ , it’s Steve’s hands on his arms, on his chest, and they’re wide hands, they were always hands too big for the rest of him except now they fit, now it’s all different, it’s all right but all wrong and Bucky blinks, and Steve’s hands are on him, but breathing.

Jesus, but _breathing_ is fucking _hard_.

“Come here,” Steve murmurs, curling an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky doesn’t know how Steve knew to find him, crouched here, useless in the night, far enough away from camp so that the sounds that wrench out of him don’t cause any trouble. 

Bucky doesn’t know.

Bucky doesn’t care, because there’re Steve’s hands, and Steve’s here. Steve’s different.

This isn’t.

“C’mere,” Steve breathes, and Bucky shivers with the way it shoots down his neck, his spine. “Keep me warm.”

And Bucky’s chest gets real tight, just then, and it’s his hands on Steve now, fumbling for a grasp, a gauge on his body temperature, a pulsepoint to tease out some sign because what if it’s not different, what if Steve still needs this, needs him, what if the cold could still kill and Bucky’s heart is racing, pounding, as he seeks out the beat of Steve’s, and he’s stupid, he’s _stupid_ , it’s freezing, and he’d left Steve to fend for himself, what does that make him, Jesus, fuck, he—

“S’okay,” Steve’s hands are wrapped around Bucky’s wrists, stilling his hands against the sides of Steve’s face. “Look at me.”

And Bucky does. Bucky looks at him, look in those eyes like the world's gonna end if he doesn’t.

Steve looks back. Steve breathes in, breathes out, and it’s steady. He’s steady. Bucky’s thumb trails down the corner of Steve’s mouth: hot. Smooth.

Bucky blinks.

Steve doesn’t blink. 

“Keep me _warm_ ,” Steve whispers, and the words themselves are warm, the words themselves mean more and Bucky catches it, all of it, on the tips of his fingers, and he thinks there’s something to be said, here, about needing and wanting; about _needing_ when a different strand of life’s at stake. 

As he leans, as he breathes out, as Steve folds around him like it’s not the worst and best thing he’s ever known, like he’s not terrified that for everything that’s different, Steve’s mouth won’t taste the same: as he leans, as he breathes out, Bucky thinks there’s something.

There’s something, yeah.

But later; later.

_______________________

Steve’s mouth, Bucky finds, has never tasted sweeter.

That, in itself, is warm.  
_______________________

After the Potomac, things are different.

Sam thinks it’s a bad idea, but Steve’s convinced, and Bucky’s just a little bit desperate to get the vice in his chest to give way, so they sit on the riverbank and Bucky blinks too fast, and he can’t breathe, but Steve’s there, Steve’s wrapped around him and _Steve’s_ breathing, and Steve’s lips are all over his neck, Steve can feel the rush of fear and hate and horror straight through Bucky’s veins, of course he can, but Steve _stays_.

And Steve’s arms aren’t a restraint, they’re a comfort, and if Bucky shakes then Steve is solid, then Steve shakes with him, then Steve is everything and _all things_ against him, beside him, within every gasp he makes and Steve’s words are soft and constant, and somehow Bucky can feel them even as their mouths meet, even as Bucky starts losing his breath in Steve’s mouth rather than in the spinning of his own mind—even as Bucky stretches out and lets Steve cover him, lets Steve write new truths against the old ones, the hard ones, the _wrong_ ones in this place, on this ground, between their chests:

 _I have loved you and needed you and wanted you, I have lived and died for you, I have trusted you and believed in you and I have never stopped, I won’t ever stop and there is nothing that can change that, there is nothing you can do or be or say or think or try that will make that go away, that will make that any less of what I am, of who I am, of the way I judge my world based on the compass of you, the way you were my hero, my benchmark, my North from the very first: you can’t take that, Bucky, you can’t take that and twist that any other way, not with anything, not for anything, because I love you and that is the only thing that doesn’t change._.

Steve breathes the air into his lungs with a story in it, a promise, and fuck, but it’s _sweet_.

Like always.

After the Potomac, like _that_ : things are _different_.

And it’s good, Christ; fuck, but it’s _so_ good, so much better than Bucky could have hoped for, could have thought he’d get around to grasping for, and maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t—maybe he’s got too much blood on his hands or red in his ledger or whatever the fuck else Nat and Barton and Banner, even, say in their attempts to sympathize, to help him wade through the memories when they crop up and pull him under. Or maybe he’s been cut too deep, brought too low; maybe the universe _owes_ a man who’s lost like him, who’s hurt like him, maybe he’s done more than his time for his sins and the fates are making it up to him like this, with _this_ —

Maybe it’s like Stark says when he’s getting hammered twice over, in honor of the fact that Bucky can’t: maybe the universe doesn’t give a shit, maybe fate’s a goddamned lie. Bucky thinks that’s probably how it goes, really.

But whatever it is, or isn’t: what he’s got here, what they’ve _made_ here, him and Steve?

Jesus, but it is every _good_ known to god and man.

That doesn’t mean that Bucky still doesn’t forget, sometimes. That doesn’t mean that the past stays in the past.

And the thing is, it’s not always the past people expect that takes him by surprise, that deviates his trajectory—it’s not always the past they expect to steal him from the now.

It’s early; it’s early, and he sleeps, these days, sometimes. With Steve next to him. With Steve on top of him. With Steve like a second skin around his frame.

Like that, sometimes, he sleeps.

But Steve’s up already, and Bucky’s still bleary with the dregs of whatever lives in his mind when he doesn’t dream, so while he vaguely processes that Steve’s in the shower, it doesn’t really register. While he knows clearly enough that stumbling into the bathroom is a thing he should announce with a knock or a grunt or something, that’s about as far as he gets.

Until he breathes in the thickness; until he feels weighed down inside the steam.

Suddenly, he’s dizzy with more than the heat.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky hisses, and he tears open the shower curtain without pausing, without thinking, and maybe he busts a ring or two in the process, maybe he tears it half off the bar, but fuck, fuck—

“ _Fuck_ , Steve, the hell’re you doing?” 

He meets Steve’s eyes—wide things, blinking drops of sudsy foam where they stream down from the shampoo in his hair, but Bucky doesn’t care about that, he doesn’t care because it’s so fucking hot in here, it’s _oppressive_ and Bucky’s own body is working overtime for it, underneath the waves of panic, so Steve’s body, Steve’s system, Steve’s heart’s gotta be near it’s breaking point because Steve can’t handle this shit, Steve can’t weather the extremes.

“Come on,” and Bucky’s got one hand on Steve’s arm and the other reaching to turn off the water, and Bucky’s steady himself just as he’s steadying Steve and it’s etched out in his bones, how to do this, how to find Steve and help Steve and pull Steve from the jowls of whatever wants to do him in—this is what he knows.

“Breathe, okay, just,” and Bucky ignores the way that the condensation in the air’s fogged up his left arm, it’s so fucking heavy; he ignores it and breathes it in, breathes it even if it feels wet in his own lungs, and he does his best to ease Steve carefully, to lead Steve out of the shower and closer to the door to get him out of this fucking sauna, back to real air that might settle whatever chaos is raging through the body that Bucky needs, that Bucky holds, that Bucky _loves_.

“Deep breaths, slow breaths,” Bucky coaxes, watches Steve’s chest out of the corner of his eye as he models the rhythm as best he can through his own terror. “We’ll get you cooled down and it’ll be alright, yeah, we’ll be alright and you’ll be fine, just breathe, nice and careful now, nice and slow, see, here, watch how I—”

“Buck.”

Steve’s voice is what shakes him, what grounds him. Steve’s voice is always the only thing that can manage those things.

“Buck, look at me.”

And Steve’s voice is soft, Steve’s voice is calm and it’s so patient, it’s so rich and full and there’s something in the back of Bucky’s mind that’s starting to work through the scene in front of him, the fear inside him: Steve could never speak when it was like this, when he was struggling just to stand another second on this earth.

Steve could _never_.

Bucky blinks; Bucky looks.

The skinny image in his mind starts to fade.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes out, and Steve smiles at him, folds a big hand—strong and steady, made for holding a pencil, still, more than carrying a war—around Bucky’s at his shoulder and slides it to the center of his chest where Bucky can feel what he’s looking for, can find the proof he needs.

Steady there, too: the life of Steve Rogers. Heavier, maybe, but constant. Strong.

“Gotta take my hot showers in the morning,” Steve grins, a little rueful, a little playful, and so very real as he leans, as he bumps his nose against Bucky’s like they're seven years old again, like the world’s simple and there’s no more to it than the way the two of them fit. “Rest of the day, you’ve got me stuck with nothing but the good ol’ cold rinse.”

Bucky feels his lips quirk, and it’s part humor, but more relief.

So much more relief.

“And you,” Bucky swallows, roots himself carefully in the now. “It’s okay,” he nods, glances at Steve for confirmation, maybe; or just to be sure that they’re both still here and it’s not a dream Bucky’s having, it’s not back then, somehow, and Steve’s just in his head like this: safe, healthy, _fine_. 

“Either one is,” Bucky flattens his palm against the proof before him: “Either is okay.”

The extremes, Bucky thinks. Either extreme is okay.

“Mmm,” Steve laces his fingers in between Bucky’s. “S’not so nice, having to leave you in bed if you’re still sleepin’, but,” he shrugs, and Bucky watches the ripple of his muscles for the motion, the way that drops of water curl across the contours of his skin. 

“I see you after, either way, so,” Steve smiles, and Bucky knows Steve enough to tell the flush of heat from the flush of _more_ that rises in his cheeks, beneath the lines of soap still trailing from his unrinsed hair. “More than okay.”

Bucky smiles, then, full on, and his breathing’s easy, now, if undercut with embarrassment as he leans into Steve, feels the wetness soak him through as he reaches, as he draws the shampoo streaks away from Steve’s eyes with the pads of his thumbs and speaks against Steve’s lips: “Sap.”

Steve grins; Bucky can measure every twitch of it where their mouths press together.

“Could be better, though,” Steve says, and he lets go of Bucky’s hand to take ahold of Bucky’s hips, to push his boxers down to his knees.

“If I didn’t have to just see you after,” Steve nips quick, just a bite against Bucky’s lower lip as he walks them slowly, but with purpose, back toward the shower, and maybe Bucky steps out of his shorts without thinking; maybe that’s a thing that’s etched into his bones, too—maybe that’s a thing that he knows.

“It’d be better, I think, if I didn’t have to leave you,” Steve reaches behind them, catching the swell of Bucky’s pout between his own as he turns the water back on: full force, searing: “At all.”

It’s a testament, probably, to just what Steve _does_ to him, that Bucky shivers even as the steam starts rising once more.

“Stevie,” Bucky moans, just a little, just enough into Steve’s mouth before Steve pulls back, eyes flicking up to meet Bucky’s, to watch and hold the gaze as Steve works down, as Steve sucks rings against Bucky’s collarbone, around his nipple, licks stripes against the scar tissue at his left shoulder, down his abs, lapping at the trail of hair before he lowers himself to his knees, nuzzles at the hollow crease of Bucky’s groin.

“Babe, c’mon,” Bucky’s voice is hoarse, and his back’s against the wall of the shower, now, and his chest’s heaving hard for the way his lungs are gasping as Steve just mouths, barely tongues, breathes cool against the wetness ‘round the curls at Bucky’s crotch. “Fuck, _c’mon_.”

And the feeling of Steve’s laughter, hot but sharp against the lines drawn by his lips, by the spray behind them: it’s a heady thing, a perfect thing.

Bucky’s hard as a goddamned rock by the time Steve swallows him down.

And Steve knows him, and Bucky’s hands in Steve’s hair somehow manage to be gentle, somehow manage to work the suds out beneath the stream of water even as he pants for every practiced swirl of that tongue, every well-matched hollowing of those goddamned fucking cheeks as Bucky’s shuddering, Bucky’s ready to spill fast and hard between those lips just as they slip off, slow by inches, by halves before Steve presses the lightest of kisses to the tip, to the length on either side before he pulls back, and stares up at Bucky with something wordless and still so _clear_ inside his eyes, and Bucky’s blood is all fire and need, just then, but he thinks more than that, bigger and better still, is the way that look fills him and threatens to break every part of him, just because Bucky was never built to contain that kind of immensity, that kind of absolute desire.

And because Steve knows him, and because Bucky knows Steve right back, it’s a smooth syncopation as Steve rocks back on his heels and rises, as Bucky runs fingers one last time through Steve's wet locks before sliding down Steve's sides as he stands, before resting open palms against the backs of Steve’s thighs: it’s a thing they don’t have to struggle to time, to choreograph as Steve rocks into Bucky’s body, as Bucky grasps the globes of Steve’s ass, lets his fingers tease the entrance before easing in, before stretching slow, and it’s heat, the whole thing is so much heat as the water keeps falling, as the blood keeps thrumming, as Steve’s breath hits heavy at the place in Bucky’s neck where the force of his heartbeat makes itself known—and Steve moves into Bucky’s hold on him, Bucky’s touch in him, and it’s a goddamned miracle.

 _They’re_ a goddamned miracle.

And when Steve’s breath hitches as Bucky skims along that sweetest spot, it’s pure instinct, it’s do or die as Bucky tilts his head and takes Steve’s mouth, licks all the nameless words against the flesh—it’s in Steve’s mouth that Bucky understand the meaning of the roll of Steve’s hips, and it’s with no more than a glance that Bucky’s bracing Steve’s thighs as Steve’s lifting his legs, wrapping them tight around Bucky’s middle like they used to, like they could on the good days when Steve’s lungs were clear and the breeze was cool and Bucky could be slow, Bucky could be gentle, but it’s warm now, it’s boiling under the surface, here, and Bucky spares one more glance into those wide, waiting eyes before he cants his hips, slides in and watches the long length of Steve’s neck tilt back, mouth open, an invitation: one that Bucky gladly accepts.

So Bucky’s sucking hard against the pulse at Steve’s throat, setting a rhythm between them as they move together, as Bucky eases out just to slip back in, as Steve clenches around his length with every thrust, as they manage the impossible, two grown men fucking against the shower wall, carrying more weight than they rightly should stand, bearing more love than makes sense to know.

“Buck,” Steve gasps, moves down onto Bucky like it’s the last thing either one of them’ll ever do. “Buck, I…”

And Bucky’s drunk with the feel of Steve everywhere, all over, so he doesn’t think twice before he kisses Steve, hard and fast and deep, until they’re both breathless, and it’s okay, it’s okay now, to be breathless between them, to take what it means to be _here_ and ride it to the very limits of control. 

“Harder,” Steve mouths into him, filthy with the way his tongue drags, sloppy and slick against the line of Bucky’s lips, and fuck, yes.

Bucky’s more than happy to oblige.

And his heart is pumping hard, heavy, aching, furious against his ribs and he fucking loves it, he loves it because it’s wretched, and it’s wild, and it’s matched for every squeeze and give by Steve, his Steve, who’s here and who can take the highs and the lows. And Bucky’s grateful, he is goddamned _grateful_ because his heart’s been full of Steve since before he knew what it meant, and it used to scare him to think of Steve ever carrying that kind of weight for him in return, but now, like this: there’s Steve up against him, Steve’s taste on his teeth, Steve’s tongue in his mouth, Steve’s unconscionable heat all around him and Bucky can feel the pumping of a heart that was always bigger, always better, and now has the wherewithal to make it known—Bucky can feel that beat shaking around him inside Steve’s body, and it’s the fucking best thing, it is the _best thing_ that the world’s ever given, that the universe can hold.

More than he can hold out against, to be fair, as he gasps into Steve’s mouth and spills hard, shakes as Steve moans against the sensation, as Bucky mouths against the vibrations of the sound in Steve’s throat, the pulse in Steve’s neck, as Bucky reaches to grasp Steve at the base and work his cock until he’s coming too, until it’s all down to the serum in their cells and sheer force of will that they’re still upright.

It’s only down to Stark’s fucking endless bank account that there’s still hot water raining down around them as they work to catch their breaths.

And if Bucky nearly chokes on the loss of Steve’s legs around him, it’s countered by the way Steve holds him under the spray of the shower, turns Bucky ‘round in his arms and runs his hands along every inch of Bucky’s skin, breathing into the crook of his neck, bending to suck against the hollow of his clavicle, and Bucky shivers, all hot and cold at once, and if he’s still, and he’s patient, and he seeks it out he can feel the jump of a heartbeat pressed against his spine like it’s tied up truly in his own pulse where Steve’s tonguing it, just beneath his throat.

And when Bucky breathes, he knows who he is, he knows where he is; knows the highs and the lows are glorious things and more than that, stronger—

He knows Steve Rogers: the highs and lows of him; the ins and the outs, and he’s an extreme all on his own, really.

He’s the only one Bucky’s ever gonna need.

**Author's Note:**

> And now I kind of want to write the rest of that scene on the River. Damn _it_.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com) and tell me that's a bad idea until it sticks, yes? Yes.


End file.
